


mon pays ce n'est pas un pays c'est l'hiver

by Sigridhr



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Schmoop, finrod is a nerd, galadriel has issues, luthien does magic through bad metaphors, terrible humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod and Galadriel come to Doriath. Galadriel takes a little while to settle in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> I'm sorry this is so short :( PhD things have gotten in the way of writing plans, sadly. I took your prompt possibly too literally and ran with it, but I hope it's at least close to what you were looking for.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it.

There is frost on the ground when Galadriel first comes to Doriath. She feels the biting cold in the air, heavy still in her lungs and it burns faintly with each breath. On the Helcaraxë it was so cold it was nearly impossible to speak. Each inhale was painful, and the muscles around the lungs would contract leaving her breathless. 

Galadriel has grown used to not speaking when it is not fully necessary. 

If the past were not quite so near, Finrod would have gently mocked her for it. As it stands, he settles only for remarking blandly but gently on the forests – but to Galadriel, they are barren. Cold, bare branches stick out, fingerlike, stretching towards the stars. They shift in the wind, murmuring restlessly, and it’s as if Galadriel feels the woods shift beneath her feet; there is great power here. 

Finrod will not stop speaking about Menegroth. They stop for nearly a full thirty minutes to admire a pillar, and, with no heed to Galadriel’s relative silence, he runs his fingers along every carved surface with almost child-like glee and drags her down a half-dozen corridors (‘just for a minute, Artanis’). 

“Remarkable,” he says, flashing a smile almost too wide for his face. “Come look at this, Artanis. Isn’t it clever? You know, given the circumstances, I’d say the Sindar have done remarkably well all things considered. Just think of what Noldor craftsmen could do with this!” 

But Galadriel pays him little heed. She feels a strange, reckless urge to crawl upwards, claw her way back to the surface and the starlight. There is a chill in the depths of Menegroth that she can’t quite shake. 

…

She finds herself wandering back out into the forest more and more. Finrod has managed to charm every librarian and architect in Thingol’s halls, not to mention the king himself, and has busied himself with ‘creating ties between the Sindar and the Noldor’, which was, Galadriel suspected, a euphemism for ‘exploring the caves and waxing lyrical about every crevice’. 

She is glad, though, to have him so near. She does well enough with the Sindar tongue but does not love it, and is glad that he is willing to exchange pleasantries and make nice with their distant cousins, leaving her free to her own thoughts and wants. 

And, apparently, her wants consist of sitting alone outside in the cold, plucking frost off blades of grass. Never before did she tend towards such aimlessness, but the world here is more wild and less willing to bend to her will than she had anticipated. 

She is so lost in her own thoughts that she does not hear the daughter of Thingol approach until Lúthien’s warm hands brush against Galadriel’s own, plucking the grass from her fingers. 

Lúthien’s eyes are amused as she twists the blade back and forth in her hand. 

“I had thought I might find you here,” she says. 

“I was told that I may go where I wished,” Galadriel replies, surprised at her own defensiveness.

“And so you may,” says Lúthien. “But I wish to know why you choose, out of all my father’s halls have to offer, to sit alone day after day.” 

Lúthien then, with more grace and dignity than such an action should warrant, hiked up her skirt and sat, cross-legged, across from Galadriel, resting her chin on her hand. 

“My brother is the better diplomat by far,” Galadriel says, blandly. “It is best if he is left to do the talking.” 

“Perhaps,” Lúthien replies, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “But that does not always make for the most interesting conversation.” 

“I am afraid I have little to say.” 

“The way your brother describes you, I would not have thought that to be true,” says Lúthien. “But you have travelled far, and under much hardship…”

There is an implied question left hanging there, and Galadriel feels the air grow still and cold in her lungs, and tastes frost on her lips. 

“It is too empty here to speak freely, as I once might have,” she says. “There is no life in the trees, and it is always dark. The air is still and sharp, and even the grass is cold.” 

To her surprise, Lúthien laughs. 

“Promise me, Galadriel,” – and Galadriel’s heart stutters in her chest at the sound of her name (still foreign to her) on Lúthien’s lips – “that you shall not judge Doriath for the cruelty of this spring’s chill. I cannot allow it.” 

Lúthien reaches out, wrapping her hands around Galadriel’s own, and they’re so warm they’re almost _painful_. 

“Come,” she says, pulling Galadriel to her feet. “Before you dismiss us all as lifeless.” 

The ground crunches beneath their feet as they walk, and branches crackle around them, but birds – faint and few – begin to sing as Lúthien passes, and it’s the first time Galadriel has heard them here. She feels tethered, rooted to this ground through Lúthien’s hand – bound, (or so she feels) for the first time, to this world that is not quite her own. 

“Here,” says Lúthien, crouching down and dropping Galadriel’s hand to gently cup a small handful of bright white early blooming flowers. 

“They’re niphredil.” She smiles, and Galadriel reaches out and gently brushes her fingers along the edges of the petals. “Doriath is not lifeless, merely sleeping. There is no need for despair quite yet.” 

She’s being mocked, but it’s gentle. Galadriel can sense the warmth of Lúthien’s body so near her own, and the petals of the flowers are gently caressing her fingers. It’s silly, she knows, to place so much meaning on such a straightforward natural process – but she finds it hard not to feel nearly giddy with senseless relief at the sight of them, and thankful to Lúthien.

“I look forward to spring,” she says, roughly. 

“As do we all,” Lúthien replies. “But it has begun, and I shall see it through. Come, up!” 

She pulls Galadriel to her feet, and impulsively, Galadriel grabs Lúthien and kisses her, gently but giddily. Lúthien laughs beneath the kiss, her lips exhilaratingly warm and sweet, and for a moment, the world seems brighter. 

“They’re only flowers,” she says, still laughing. 

“To you, perhaps,” Galadriel replies. 

Lúthien makes a small ‘hmm’ of amusement, but twines her fingers with Galadriel’s none-the-less. 

“There are more,” she says, teasingly, “if you like them so much.” 

“Show me all of them.” 

She does, and Galadriel kisses her again at each one. And, then, dizzy and heady they stumble on, half-tangled in each other, and all about them the forest begins to stir.


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently my brain can't let go of Finrod being a giant dork about caves, so this happened. It doesn't fit quite as nicely with the rest of it, so I've tacked it on as a separate coda as not to disturb the important bits (like Galadriel and Lúthien kissing on every square inch of Doriath-ian soil).

Finrod pops his head into her rooms (unannounced as usual). She’s braiding her hair, so she waves him in awkwardly with her elbow. 

“You know,” he says, “Thingol told me an odd thing today.”

She’s holding a ribbon in her mouth so all she can do is make a sort of ‘mmph’ of inquiry. 

“He says you’re quite keen on flowers,” Finrod says, leaning forward and looking torn between confusion and amusement. 

“I’m feeling vernal,” Galadriel says wryly, tying off her hair with the ribbon. 

Finrod looks her up and down, amusement gone. “I hope I have not dragged you here unwilling.”

“When have you ever made me do anything _unwilling_?” Galadriel asks. 

“Never,” he concedes. “But you have not been yourself.”

“Perhaps,” Galadriel says, “I am beginning anew.” 

“Surely not with something so tedious as botany?” 

She’s tempted to throw something at him. “This from the brother who forced me to endure a thirty minute long treatise on cave construction,” she says, pointedly. “ _Caves_ , Finderáto. At least flowers see the light of the stars.” 

Finrod lets out a barking laugh. “Point taken, sister. Each to our own, I suppose.” He jumps to his feet, apparently satisfied. “Oh, Thingol mentioned a remarkable cave system to me the other day – I plan to take a look for myself.” 

Galadriel settles for rolling her eyes. 

“I’ll build you a greenhouse!” he shouts, on his way out.


End file.
